Smoke and Mirrors
by Freya Ishtar
Summary: *Canon-Divergent AU* When Charlie Weasley offers himself to the Dark Lord's service in secret, he hopes it'll save his family from Voldemort's wrath. He doesn't plan for complications—like how deep into the darkness he'll sink, or how far he'll go to get what he wants when he finds himself falling for his little brother's almost-girlfriend. SPORADIC UPDATES
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes** **:**

 **1) Thank you to Murrilicious1316.** She posted in DEE asking for de!Weasley stories the other week, and that sparked an idea for Charlie to go to the Darkside. At the time, I wasn't free to announce this as an Upcoming Fic, as I'd promised that I would not make any more such posts until I had at least one of my WIPs finished. I vented about not being able to say anything in my writers' group, where **Gajevyaddict** saw my post and caught a de!Weasley plunnie, herself. She hadn't known that my Weasley of choice was Charlie, so when I told her, she messaged me and we discussed our plots, assuring one another that the stories are dissimilar enough that we will not step on each other's toes. **Her de!Charmione fic has since been published under the title** _ **When Good Goes Bad**_ **for those who'd like to check it out.** Author vexmybones on A03 may soon be writing a de!Charlie fic, as well, so keep your eyes peeled, people (but, like, not literally, please gods, don't peel your eyeballs!)! **  
**

 **2)** Story is canon-divergent AU starting from Bill & Fleur's wedding (possibly with some background info/events deviating from canon, as well, we shall see together 😉). Hermione's outfit in this story's opening is taken from chapter 8 of _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ (appropriately titled _The Wedding_ ) rather than the film.

* * *

 **Fancasts** [in no particular order, and no guarantee they will appear] **:**

Ben Dahlhaus (with red hair) as _Charlie Weasley_ ; Tom Hiddleston as _Remus Lupin_ ; Alexander Skarsgard as _Lucius Malfoy_ ; Charlize Theron as _Narcissa Malfoy_ ; Jason Momoa as _Fenrir Greyback_ ; Michiel Huisman as _Antonin Dolohov_ ; Chris Hemsworth as _Thorfinn Rowle_. ***** Any roles not listed are portrayed by their film actors.

* * *

 **DISCLAIMER :**

I do not own _Harry Potter_ , or any affiliated characters, and make no profit, in any form, from the production of this work.

* * *

 **Chapter One**

"Charlie!"

He wanted to kick himself when he felt his expression brighten at the mere sound of her voice. Even more so at the little thrill that coursed through him as he turned to see her running up to him. The floaty lilac dress and matched high heels she wore for the occasion suited her _too_ well, making her appear angelic while also drawing the eye to those curves that alerted anyone who was paying attention to the fact that Hermione Granger was _far_ from a child, anymore.

Before he could react, the witch had thrown herself on him in a tight hug, forcing a breathed _Oof_ out of him.

Chuckling, he closed his arms around her, returning the embrace. He doubted her feet were even touching the floor, though the mental image of the toes of her shoes dangling as she hung off him like some sort of ornament was adorably amusing.

"Someone's happy to see me," he said, smirking. He pulled back his arms to slide his hands over her hips and set her on her feet.

She beamed at him. "Of course I am. With, well, with everything happening, no one was quite sure you'd be here." She was positive the memories he had of her—being that nosy fifteen year old who kept sneaking out to the dragon enclosure to pepper him with questions about the magnificent creatures whenever he had a free moment to spare for her—weren't nearly as impactful as the recollections she had of him.

There were occasions among those secret, stolen moments during her fourth year that she wondered if she might not be developing a crush on him. But then her heart had been troubled enough that year with Viktor's attentions and Ron's tantrums that she had really believed it best to ignore any such inklings about the wizard who was _certainly_ too old for her at the time. Now, as she stood before him, mere weeks until her 18th birthday, the six and a half years that separated them didn't seem nearly as wide a gap as they had back then.

He arched a brow at her moment of quiet contemplation. Any longer of her staring up at him in silence like this might cause him to give something away in his own expression. "Are you all right, Hermione? Your cheeks look a bit flushed."

Backpedaling a step, she touched her hands to her face. Oh, dear, her skin did feel a bit warm. No, no, she couldn't possibly be blushing . . . and it couldn't possibly be because in her reminiscing she'd be unable to avoid glimpsing that time he'd had to take off his robes due to one of his charges upending their water trough on him. She'd just been slipping into the enclosure when he was stripped down to his smallclothes, toweling off and laughing. When he noticed her, she was frozen in place staring at him, and he seemed entirely oblivious to the affect his appearance in that moment would have on a teenage girl.

"Oh, I'm fine," she said with a dismissive wave. "Just . . . so much going on today, I'm running about like mad woman."

"Well, don't get yourself too worn out." He winked at her. "I expect you to save me a dance at the reception."

"Of—of course I will!" Swallowing hard, she nodded, perfectly aware she was smiling up at him like an idiot.

For a moment as he stared down at her, Charlie found himself at a complete loss for what to say next. As he finally opened his mouth to tell her something more—he did want to mention how lovely she looked—he cut himself off with a hissing breath. Before he was aware he'd moved, he clamped his right hand over his left forearm.

He still wasn't quite used to the unpleasant sensation prickling his skin beneath the leather bracer.

Hermione was all too familiar with this sort of response, and knew well that poor Charlie had received a rather nasty burn on that arm sometime ago. "Are you all right? Is it your scar?"

The unexpected burst of pain had caused him to momentarily forget his surroundings. "What?" he asked in a confused whisper.

With a sympathetic frown, she tipped her head to one side. "Your burn scar? Harry reacts the same way when his hurts. I understand it's not _quite_ the same thing, but I know severe burns can still smart for years after they've healed."

Trying to be helpful, she reached for his wrist. The way he wrenched his arm away from her fingers caused her to jump.

"Sorry," he said, feeling a bit guilty for startling her, and guiltier, still, for the look of hurt that flickered across her face. "It's just . . . sensitive. I've got some salve for the pain, I'll just go deal with this."

"Okay." She nodded, forcing a smile. "Well, go on then. But hurry up. Wedding's going to start soon. People _will_ notice if the best man is late."

Snickering, he returned her nod, thoughtlessly lifting his hand to brush her cheek. "Promise I'll be right back."

As he turned and walked away, he missed that she once again looked startled. Missed how she darted her gaze about as she lifted her own hand, her fingertips tracing over the spot he'd just touched.

* * *

All the way, until he'd managed to duck out of sight, he grumbled under his breath about the Dark Lord's awful timing. Glancing around to be certain no one would see him, he Apparrated, following the pull of the hidden Mark on his arm.

Appearing at the gates of Malfoy Manor, Charlie chewed at the inside of his lip to hold in any sounds of aggravation. He ignored the presence of, well, pretty much any of the darkly-cloaked figures around him as he made his way up long walk to the imposing edifice's double doors. Though, it did make him wonder . . . had Voldemort chosen this place because it was adequately sized to act as a base of operations? Because it was simply part of showing off the hold he had on a powerful family like the Malfoys?

Or was it simply because the place was creepy as shit? The snake-like wizard _did_ seem a fan of creepy aesthetics, after all.

As he'd hoped, his mental rambling saw him to approaching the manor, climbing the steps, and entering the foyer without giving himself time to wonder on worse, larger things. He refrained from rolling his eyes at the sad show his so-called fellows made. Charlie had to assume a false-front when he was here, groveling the way they did, but he felt no true fealty to the Dark Lord as they did.

He had only come here in recent weeks to pledge himself in service. Had only offered to return the Weasley name to the sort of 'glory' Voldemort and his ilk imagined for all the Sacred Twenty-Eight families because it suited his own purpose.

As he wound through the enormous house, he slammed his defenses into place. The Dark Lord was terrifyingly skilled at Legilimency, the last thing he needed was for the horrible creature to glean that he was less-than-loyal. He was only here so that _someone_ might be in a position to protect his loved ones if Harry failed.

His entire family seemed _so_ sure the boy would succeed in ending Voldemort that none of them had planned for the less-savory alternative, despite how very possible it was. Charlie _wanted_ to have faith in Harry, too, but it wasn't so simple. He knew they wouldn't thank him for this if Voldemort won the War—betraying them to save them and all that—but he couldn't leave it to chance, either.

And, if Voldemort did lose, then they never need know about how deeply he'd involved himself with the enemy.

As he reached the floor before the Dark Lord's seat, he stopped himself just short of worrying what would become of _her_ in a world were Voldemort made the rules.

If anyone could protect themselves it was Hermione Granger. That aside, she was practically Ron's girlfriend. He should leave her safety to his brother to worry about, shouldn't he?

Lowering himself to one knee, he waited for his _master_ to speak.

"Tell me, has there been any sign of him, yet?"

"No, My Lord. Most of the Order _is_ present, but I've yet to see Harry Potter there." Well, it wasn't actually a lie. He knew Harry was there, polyjuiced into some fictional Weasley cousin, but the boy had taken the potion _before_ Charlie had seen him, so technically . . . ? "Word has it he's already gone into hiding."

A familiar voice scoffed from somewhere else in the room.

Charlie turned his head to glare at Severus Snape over his shoulder.

Smirking, Voldemort waved a hand in the direction of Hogwarts' new headmaster. "Severus? You have something to add?"

"Not to add, My Lord, but a question for Weasley."

"Ask what you will," the Dark Lord said with another sweep of his bony fingers through the air.

"Did you see your youngest brother and Miss Granger there?"

Just barely keeping himself from forcing a gulp down his throat at the mention—he prayed he was not about to be tasked with bringing them here as bait for Harry—Charlie nodded. "Yes."

"Then Potter _is_ there, somewhere." Severus looked nearly like a Malfoy for a moment in the way he sneered as he spoke. "Your brother follows him around like some sort of love-starved pet, and neither of _them_ could find their arse with both hands unless Miss Granger drew them a map!"

There was a snickering from around the room—with the exception of the aforementioned Malfoys, who sat off by themselves, looking about as though they wanted to be anywhere else but inside their own home, just now. Charlie had to brace himself against the bristling he felt at hearing his little brother's friendship with Harry, and his intellect, mocked that way.

Instead, he forced out a perfectly calm answer. "Be that as it may, Snape, I have yet to see him there. If he _is_ present, he's hiding."

Leaning forward in his seat, Voldemort caught Charlie's jaw in his cold, unforgiving fingers and forced the younger wizard's head around to look up at him.

"You will keep a steady eye out for _any_ trace of Harry Potter," the Dark Lord said in a lethal whisper. "The second he shows himself, you know what to do."

Charlie nodded, aware there were plans in play at the Ministry, already. He was not privy to what those plans were, specifically, nor did he dare ask.

"You are dismissed."

Nodding once more, Charlie stood, offering a sweeping bow before turning on his heel. As he made his way back through the manor's first floor, he became aware of footfalls—rather determined ones, at that—trailing him.

Plastering a look of weary disinterest on his face, he whirled to meet his pursuer. His shoulders slumped, unimpressed to find the miserable scowl of Severus Snape staring back at him.

"Just so you know, Weasley," the dark-haired wizard said in a low, hissing murmur, "I do _not_ trust you."

His eyebrows shooting upward, Charlie barked out a surprised laugh. "Nor I you, _Severus_."

The severity of his expression lessening, Snape gave him a quick once over. Dropping his voice lower, still, he said, "Good. Keep it that way. You'll live longer."

Blue eyes narrowing, Charlie watched his former professor turn and stalk away. Was it . . . was it possible Snape knew his pledge of servitude was insincere? He supposed it didn't matter, since Snape had no proof, nor did it sound as though he was about to go running to the Dark Lord with his suspicions, whatever those might be.

Cognizant, suddenly, of just how long he'd been here, Charlie rushed the rest of the way to the edge of the grounds. He Apparated, managing to get back to the Burrow just in time to claim his place beside Bill as Fleur made her entrance.

His gaze found Hermione's among the pews—though he could swear he hadn't actually been looking for her—and she made a show of tapping an imaginary watch on her wrist. She seemed, however, unable to help the smirk curving her lips as she gestured.

Smiling as he rolled his eyes at her, he shrugged. When she bit her lip to hold back a laugh at his flippant demeanor over his almost-tardiness, Charlie was quite sure he felt a resounding thump in the center of his chest.

And the sensation was definitely in response to the smiling face of the witch who currently held his attention.

The witch who was practically Ron's girlfriend.

 _Shit_.


	2. Chapter 2

**1)** I have started my own mini-FB group for dark-themed fics ( _Dark Hearts, Dark Arts_ ). For those interested, I have posted the link on my FFN Profile Page.

 **2)** The café scene is a little different from how it played out in canon. Though, I think it's kind of a given that there will be canon and non-canon events mixed together, as well as canon events with non-canon twists to them in this story. There may even be some moments from *brace yourselves* film-canon over book-canon in this. All depends what the story calls for.

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

He almost laughed out loud as he noticed the way Ron all but wrenched Hermione out of her seat to go dance with him. Anything to get her away from Viktor Krum. Yet, the witch seemed so elated by the attention—something that she was clearly unaccustomed to, at least in this measure—that she didn't appear to notice that his little brother's gesture was fueled by jealousy.

Charlie closed his eyes, pinching tiredly at the bridge of his nose. He loved his brother, but if the only time Ron could show her he cared was when there was obvious competition, she was going to go from 'practically his girlfriend' to 'that girl who spits when she says his name.'

Though he hated it, he kept a steady eye on Harry. Well, a steady eye on 'cousin Barny.' Much to his relief, however, the polyjuiced visage was holding up seamlessly, giving no clear indication to any onlookers that something might be a miss.

At least his story to the Dark Lord that he hadn't _seen_ any sign of Harry was still technically not a lie.

After several minutes of nearly mindless crowd-watching, his gaze traveled back to Hermione. Smiling and laughing as she whirled about the dance floor. Oh, but oh, poor Ron was being absolutely trounced by her as far as dance skills . . . or as far as anything resembling fluidly moving to the music.

Biting his lip to hold in another laugh, he decided it was probably about time he rescued her. With a shake of his head, he crossed to the middle of the dance floor.

Hermione's brows shot up, that bright smile of hers broadening as she saw him pop up beside them.

Tapping his already out of breath little brother on the shoulder, he grinned as Ron turned to face him. "May I cut in?"

Ron nodded, inhaling sharply. "Sure, um, if it's okay with Hermione."

The witch nodded back, trying not to seem too elated at her change in dance partners. She was absolutely not blushing at him again, she was not!

"You must be really working yourself up," Charlie said with another of those winks of his as Ron dragged himself away. "Your face is all pink."

"Well, dancing, you know?"

He only chuckled, trying not to give away that he was certain there was something more to it. He didn't want to make this awkward if he were wrong.

"Oh!" Almost immediately the girl stopped in place. "Your arm! Are you feeling better?"

"Hmm?" Remembering suddenly the fib he'd been forced to tell to explain his Mark burning earlier, he nodded. To prove his point, he rolled up the sleeve of his dress robes, showing the burn scar that appeared over the top of his black leather bracer and trailed up his elbow, ending in curled point on his bicep. "See? Good as new. You were right, it just randomly aches sometimes."

Before Hermione could stop herself, she'd reached out, brushing her hand along the skin just beside the burn. "It looks like it must've been so painful."

He was too aware of the drag of her fingertips against his arm. Swallowing hard, he nodded. "Of course it was," he managed with a laugh.

"How did it happen?" She looked up then, meeting his gaze. There was something in the way he was looking at her that had her forgetting to breathe for a blissful moment. "I . . . I mean, how did it happen _exactly_ , since, obviously, it was from one of your charges."

A smile curved up the corners of his mouth as he clearly tried not to laugh. "I'd like to say it was some brave tale of rescuing an adolescent dragon from peril." God, she still had her fingers trailing his skin and he had no desire to do anything that might make her stop. "But the truth is . . . I sneezed."

Her brows shot up, a shocked giggle bubbling out of her. "What?"

Charlie rolled his eyes a little. "Well, the moral of the story is _never_ startle a sleeping dragon."

Hermione shook her head, letting out a hearty laugh at the embarrassing truth. "So much for mystery?"

He shrugged, dropping his gaze to her trailing fingers. "To be fair . . . . You're the only one who knows that story."

The witch beamed up at him. "What? Really? Well, makes me feel sort of special, then."

"As you should."

Silence fell between them and she was suddenly, acutely aware of how close they stood. Acutely aware of how close together they stood . . . . Of her continued touch on his arm.

Of how he made no move to stop her.

Lifting her attention to his face, she thought she must be imagining things as he seemed strangely awestruck. He watched her fingertips dancing across the skin around his scar in delicate strokes again and again, and he looked absolutely mesmerized by it.

It felt as though the bustle and commotion of the dance floor around them became muffled to her ears. The press of people surrounding them fell away, giving her the odd and overwhelming impression that they were alone, despite the crowded atmosphere.

She considered that perhaps she'd been doing this as a gesture of comfort, and yet, there had been no conscious decision behind it. Touching him like this felt . . . natural.

Her voice tumbled from between her lips, low and breathy—making it a wonder he was able to hear her at all—as she asked, "I'm sorry, would you like me to stop?"

At last pulling his gaze from her touch to meet her eyes, he swallowed hard. It seemed a few stretched heartbeats passed before he could answer. "No."

She had the oddest sense that she was drifting closer to him. But, no, that . . . that couldn't be so. This was Charlie Weasley before her. He should be stopping her. Or leaning away or . . . or doing anything but seeming like he was drifting closer to her, as well.

Hermione could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin. She could see flecks of deep, nearly-purple violet in the blue of his irises. Swallowing hard, she found her gaze searching his face as she asked in a airy whisper, "So are you . . . are you going back to Romania after this?"

His gaze was searching her face as well, it nearly seemed as though they were silently asking each other what was happening between them. He realized he adored the faint smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose—the one only noticeable when someone was this close to her. "No. The Order needs me here, so . . . I'll probably be sticking around. Just for a bit, anyway."

"Well, then," she said, shaking her head and trying to get her bearings, though she was failing miserably. "I suppose we'll be seeing quite a bit more of each other than we're used to."

He smirked and his brows shot up, deliberately misinterpreting her meaning, just to see her reaction.

With an embarrassed giggle, she brought her hand up to cover her mouth. "I didn't mean that like it sounded, I just meant—"

"I know what you meant, Hermione."Charlie nodded as her hand fell back to that spot she'd been touching on his arm all this time. "I think I'd like it if we could see more of each other."

Her brow furrowed as she found them, once again, starting to drift closer to one another. "How do _you_ mean that?"

That smirk faded, leaving a serious expression in its place as his gaze traced over her lips. "Whichever way you want it to mean."

Hermione felt her eyes closing slowly. Felt the warmth of his body pressing closer to hers. Felt the giddy, rushing anticipation in the pit of her stomach as his lips brushed over hers.

A sudden commotion around them brought them both crashing back to reality. But she couldn't help noticing the way he turned her. The way he pushed her behind him and stepped in front of her before even knowing what was happening.

The way she found her fingers curling into the back of his robes as he stood protectively in front her.

The commotion, it turned out, had been everyone parting to make way for a wispy silver-blue lynx that had bounded into the middle of the festivities. The patronus opened its jaws, and out came the deep, familiar timbre of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"The Ministry has fallen. They are coming."

Hermione felt a chill rock through her at those words. The assembly of guests went into a panic, people bolting in different directions, utter chaos happening around them in a blink. This was _really_ happening!

The next thing she knew, she was being tugged backward, away from Charlie.

He turned to grab hold of her, only to find her gone. Looking about, his gaze frantic, he saw 'Cousin Barny' pulling her by the hand. Ron, too—he felt a little jab of guilt at the worried expression in his little brother's face as he looked at the witch they were dragging along.

She was better with them . . . . Safer with them.

Charlie nodded reluctantly. It was better this way, a thing that never was.

But then, she looked back at him. For a pained and frozen moment, their gazes held. She offered him a sad little slip of a grin as she was tugged further from him, still.

"I'll be okay," she said, mouthing the words. "Go!"

Nodding once more, he granted her a sad, small smile of his own in response before he turned to look at the place where the lynx had stood just seconds ago. The phantom creature was gone now that it had delivered its message.

And Charlie cursed the very air in its place. If it got back to the Dark Lord that everyone had been warned and he hadn't tried to rush back to Malfoy Manor and tell Voldemort, himself, there would be hell to pay.

Muttering angrily under his breath, he slipped out amid the tumult, making his way to a safe spot from which to Apparrate.

* * *

Hermione shook her head as she sat at the table in a tacky Muggle café, a pleasantly warm paper cup of cappuccino clutched between her hands. Everything had happened so quickly. She couldn't help but wonder, would she have noticed the commotion in the tent sooner, had she not been distracted with the wizard who—

"Move!"

Her body reacted to Harry's shouted command before she even thought to follow, falling to her side beneath the rim of the table as she pulled her wand. Sometimes, her combative reflexes frightened her. She was a witch, not a bloody soldier!

She peered over the tabletop, gauging their enemies' positions. Unexpectedly, another chill like that moment after Kingsley's declaration stole across her skin. She found herself staring into the dark eyes of Antonin Dolohov.

The very same Death Eater whose mysterious curse had almost taken her life just a little over a year ago.

Gritting her teeth, she shot off a Stunner, not surprised when he deflected and fired back. She dropped back into hiding, ducking the blast, but not before managing a quick inventory of the scene. Harry and Ron were locked in combat of their own with that blond brute, _Something_ Rowle. He seemed to be firing wild at his two opponents, but his explosive spells were hitting near enough that they had their hands full dodging his attacks.

She was on her own.

She had Antonin Dolohov to herself. And he wasn't getting away from her. Uttering a soft, determined little sound of anger in the back of her throat, she flicked her wand at herself, casting a quick shielding charm. It would only last a few seconds, she knew, but that was all she needed.

Popping out of hiding, she stormed directly up to Dolohov. His dark eyes were wide with shock as he fired spell after spell at her while she approached.

Counting under her breath, she waited. Waited until the charm dropped, she wanted him to catch the full force of her spell, unhindered by the shield. _"_ Three . . . two . . . one. _Bombarda!"_

Her attack sent the Dark wizard flying across the café. He hit the wall at the back _hard_ and slid to floor. Blinking a few times as she got her frenzied breathing under control, she looked to Harry and Ron. They'd apparently just subdued Rowle, and were looking at her in shock. Just as much shock as Dolohov had shown at her bold maneuver.

She managed a triumphant grin as she made her way to them—they stood equidistance between where Dolohov had landed and Rowle had dropped.

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she looked from one Death Eater to the other, and back. "What should we do?"

"We can't let them tell anyone they found us, but killing them isn't an option."

Ron gaped at Harry and shook his head. "Isn't it?"

Harry shot Ron an angry look, speaking through clenched teeth. "No. I _won't_ become like him. What about . . . what about a memory charm? We'll make them forget they found us here."

"Okay," Ron said, though there was reluctance in his voice. "How 'bout it, 'Mione?"

She dragged her gaze from Dolohov, trying to ignore how amazing it had felt to take him down after what he'd done to her. "Hmm?"

Meeting her eyes, Ron reached out. Brushing some wayward hairs that had clung to her cheek away with his fingers, he explained, "You're the best at charms. You should do it."

Nodding, she forced another gulp as she raised her wand at Dolohov. She'd recognized that Ron's gesture just now had a certain intimacy to it that he'd never shown before. A certain closeness. She might . . . she might even call it romantic.

For so long, she'd hoped for some sign from Ronald Weasley that he felt this way toward her.

Yet, all she could think about as she worked the charm on Dolohov and Rowle, in turn, was the look of worry in a set of violet-flecked blue eyes as she was pulled away. All she could think about was that brush of _Charlie_ Weasley's lips over hers before their world had turned upside down on them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Charlie jerked awake, the sound of Rowle's anguished screams still in his head. Sitting up, he pushed aside the blanket and braced his elbows on his knees. As he drew in a deep, shaky breath, he tried to not remember the scene.

Weeks had drifted past since that night. A test of his mettle, he supposed, that Voldemort had made him stand by, idle, as Draco had been used as a weapon. The Malfoy heir looked sick and anguished, himself, as he'd struck Thorfinn Rowle with the horrific, staggering effects of the Cruciatus Curse. Again and again, under the threat of receiving worse from the Dark Lord if he did not comply.

Charlie hadn't known if the scent of something burning—that smell that made him wonder if too much of this torment might actually start to sear the victim from within—was his imagination or truly something that was happening to the hulking blond wizard writhing on the floor in agony. He wouldn't be wholly surprised to learn that it was.

At some point, the memory charm cast on Rowle had broken, and they'd learned it had been cast by—as the Death Eaters and their terrible leader called her—Potter's Mudblood. Charlie'd hid well a proud grin to know she'd given Rowle and Dolohov such trouble. From the sound of it, she'd _really_ gone after the Russian bloke with something of a fury.

Just as he'd been proud, he'd felt sickened that they had come so close to capture. And now, all this time had passed without word as to where they were or how they were holding up. Nothing beyond the night that Remus had stormed in, beside himself after some row with Harry at Grimmauld Place.

Of course, as Remus told it, she'd tried to calm the situation, but neither of them would listen. Not that he couldn't understand Remus' concerns about his wife and what his child's future might hold, but Harry's argument had a point, too. The younger wizard had been a bit too rough about it, but Charlie hadn't been there, he could only assume tensions were high as it was.

After he'd heard about three people infiltrating the Ministry, he'd known it was probably them. He'd gone to Grimmauld Place, but aside from some of their things, his brother, Harry, and Hermione were nowhere to be found. The house had seemed ransacked, though, so clearly someone had been there searching for something.

Sighing, he stood and stretched, forcing the last bits of fuzzy, dreamed memory from his mind. He hated that he couldn't fully purge the scene of Rowle's torture from his mind. Even watching one's enemy in such torment was chilling, he supposed.

He swallowed hard, the bridge of his nose crinkling. Chilling, _and_ nauseating.

"Oh, you're awake," Dad's voice drifted in through the open doorway of the safehouse's third bedroom.

Nodding, Charlie started pulling on his robes. Simple, lightly scuffed and worn black leather, they looked like something a Muggle might wear on a night out to one of those places with dark, pulsing music that could be heard outside the walls of the building.

"What time is it?"

"Well, you slept through lunch," Arthur said with a shrug, looking at his son with a small, regretful smile, "but then you did get in so very late last night."

Biting his lip, Charlie nodded once more. "I know." Between his own agenda and sneaking off to the Dark Lord's side to insist that no one knew where the trio had vanished to, he didn't have a whole lot of time for keeping to a normal, human, sleep schedule.

"You've got to stop doing this to yourself." Arthur shook his head. "I know they're young, but they can take care of themselves. We have to trust that."

"I just want to know they're safe." Never had Charlie Weasley spoken truer words in his life. He didn't care where they were, exactly, he just needed to assure himself that none of the _loyal_ Death Eaters learned of where they were, either. He did have one option left to him, but he hadn't wanted to use it unless it became truly necessary.

Still, the image of Hermione being tugged away from him amid the chaos that had ended Bill and Fleur's wedding reception kept floating back to him.

Wait . . . there was something . . . . What day was it? He was forgetting something, he was sure of it.

"C'mon," Dad said, patting his son's shoulder. "Let's get you something to eat."

His stomach still a bit unsettled from the memory of miserable shrieks and dreadful scent of possible internal charring, Charlie winced. "Um, no. I think I'm going to go for a walk, actually."

Arthur slumped at that. "Charlie, you know it's not safe."

"I'll stick to the Muggle neighborhoods. And I'll keep a low profile, promise. I just need some air, is all."

Though it took a solid ten minutes of convincing, eventually Charlie grabbed his bag and made his way outside. He quickly wound through to the block he'd had in mind and started along, slowing to a casual pace. As predicted, the Muggles didn't seem to pay him any mind. That was good.

One of the shops he liked showcased artful silver jewelry in the window. Sometimes, the pieces were even carved or twisted into dragons.

As he stared through the glass, he noted a display on the wall beyond the counter. Digital, Hermione had called that once, when she'd shown him a wristwatch that had the same barred numbers. It was already well into the evening. But beside the time was the date.

19th of September.

Pursing his lips, he nodded. Eyeing one piece of jewelry, in particular, he entered the shop.

Oh, sure, when he exited moments later with the item in a sleek little velvet pouch, he thought perhaps he'd been getting a bit too comfy with the Death Eaters that he'd thought nothing of using a memory charm on the Muggle man behind the counter. But he needed a present, and it was hardly as though he could be seen running about Diagon Alley under the circumstances.

The Order didn't know he was a Death Eater, the Dark Lord was tricked into believing he was a spy within the Order's ranks, and not being in the open as his other servants could be was part of _that_ role. Bloody mess that was if he thought on it too long.

Ducking into an alley, he took a moment to gather his thoughts. Once more, he came back to that one way he, alone, had to reach them. Well, to reach her, anyway. Something he'd not tried, yet. He'd cast a few very specific spells in the wake of Ginny's possession, thinking how useful it could be under certain circumstances. But it was hardly legal magic—the Light might disapprove, the Dark would take advantage.

It wouldn't tell him where they were, but it would let him get a message to her.

Looking at the velvet pouch, he wondered why he'd bothered, but he wanted to her have something. So stupid. During whatever was going on, her birthday was probably the furthest thing from her mind.

* * *

Hermione slipped out of the tent, swallowing past a lump in her throat.

"Hey, where are you going?"

Looking over at Harry whose turn it was to stand watch, she shrugged, forcing a tired smile. "Just for a walk. Don't worry, I won't go far. Ron's asleep, finally. I just want some air."

Nodding, though he appeared reluctant to let her go, he simply said, "Okay. Be careful." He didn't pay much mind to the book in her arms. Hermione and books, what was new, after all?

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Always." Turning on her heel she walked off, keeping her pace steady. When she was far enough from the tent, she ducked into a thick stand of trees.

Pressing her back to one of them, she let out a shuddering breath. Oh, sure, she knew there was so much going on, so many more important things. She _knew_ that they probably hadn't even realized, the days blending into one another as they were, but even being so realistic about it, even being so cognizant of their circumstances . . . .

Her two best friends in the entire world not even mentioning that it was her birthday today _stung_.

When she'd awoken that morning, she'd not thought much of it. As the day wore on, she thought sure one of them might say something, even if just to lament that it was miserable to have a birthday during something like this, because it was sure to be glossed over and forgotten. But now, night was falling and not a bloody word from either of them.

Oh, she knew it was selfish, but everything had been so dark and heavy as of late. She couldn't help hoping for just a little bit of light right now.

As Harry had relieved her from standing watch, and Ron had drifted to sleep, Hermione'd heard it. Scratching from inside one of her books. A notebook she'd taken from the Weasley house—with Molly's permission, of course—in case she'd needed an extra one.

How odd.

When she'd opened it, wand drawn on a bundle of paper and leather and feeling quite like an idiot, she found her name scrawled inside. Her brows pinching together, she'd only stared at it for a moment before further words formed.

 _Don't panic, it's Charlie._

"Charlie?" she'd breathed his name in a happy whisper, that near-kiss they'd shared the last time they'd seen one another flashing through her mind.

So much had happened since then that it seemed a lifetime ago.

She didn't know how she'd explain this to Harry or Ron if they saw it. They were both so on edge, so paranoid lately that she couldn't be certain what they'd make of another 'talking' journal. Stuffing a capped ink bottle and a quill up the sleeve of her jumper, she'd hugged the book to her and slipped from the tent.

Now, in the mixed light from the setting sun and rising moon, she settled on ground and opened the book in her lap. Retrieving the ink and quill, she hurriedly wrote out a reply.

 _How do I know this is Charlie?_

 _Because it's my notebook my mum let you take, you little thief._

Her eyebrows shot up as she laughed. _Is that supposed to be proof?_

 _You're not the only one who dabbles in not-necessarily legal magics for safety purposes. I spelled two books as last-resort form of communication. Never got to test them out, though. You've got one, I've got the other. It wouldn't have mattered which one you took. Hell of a trial run, I suppose._

Chewing at her bottom lip, she asked again, _Proof, please?_

 _I almost didn't make it in time for my own brother's wedding because I was putting salve on my burn._

She hadn't told anyone else about that. And from the way he'd slipped quietly back into the tent just as the wedding was starting, she was certain that neither had he.

Feeling almost embarrassed for doubting him, but knowing he understood her caution, she finally wrote back, _Hi, Charlie_.

 _Happy birthday, Hermione_.

She covered her mouth with her hand, stifling a gasp. _You remembered?_

 _Almost missed it. Didn't even realize what day it was for a bit, there._

Her shoulders slumping, she nodded. _Lot of that going around._

 _I got you something. Don't know when I'll be able to get it to you, though._

God, she wanted to see him. Closing her eyes, she forced a gulp down her throat. Maybe . . . maybe if it were only for a few minutes. _Where are you?_

 _Some-bloody-where in Muggle London._

 _You're in Muggle London?_

 _Less chance of being spotted by anyone working for You Know Who._

Frowning thoughtfully, she nodded. That made sense. _Where?_

 _Fucked if I know._ There was a pause in the writing. Was he really walking about jotting something down in a journal? Well, she couldn't say that would be incredibly conspicuous, Muggles did that sort of thing all the time. _Milkwood Road? And you make fun of Wizarding names for places. For shame._

She snickered, feeling lighter and happier than she had in weeks. Biting her lip, she looked back around the tree. Harry was still there, still looking ready to kill something or jump out of his own skin, all at once.

It would only be for a few moments. It was dangerous and it was stupid what she was thinking, but she was sure that between Harry's temper being all over the place and Ron being so increasingly sour with each passing day, she was slowly going mad.

 _Look around, do you see a park nearby?_

Another delay before he answered. _Actually, yeah_.

Drawing in a steadying breath, she nodded to herself. _I'll meet you just inside the entrance._

 _What?! Hermione, no!_

 _It'll only be for a few minutes. I promise. Please don't tell me no._

When he didn't protest again, she knew she'd won the argument. Capping the ink bottle, she stowed it and the quill—thank God she didn't care about this particular jumper that much—back inside her sleeve and Apparated.

* * *

Though he was prepared for her arrival, he couldn't help starting as she popped into existence barely a meter from him. Just as fast as she appeared, she stepped up to him, grabbed him by the front of his robes and pulled him away from the entrance, out of easy sight of passersby.

Before he could say anything, she threw herself on him, hugging him much the same as she had before the wedding. His eyes drifted shut and a sigh rumbled out of him as he closed his arms around her.

"Missed me?" he asked, a breathy chuckle edging his words.

Sniffling, she nodded. "You're the only one who remembered it's my birthday."

At the sound of her tear-thickened voice, he set her on her feet, holding her back enough that he could look into her face. "Oh, my God. You're crying."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, I just . . . God, I feel so weak and stupid. Worrying about my bloody birthday when so much is going on."

"Shh, shh," he said, wiping at her cheeks with his palm. "Don't ever say something that idiotic. Having emotions doesn't make you weak. You're one of the strongest people I know."

Before she knew it, she was babbling at him. She needed to, though. She _had_ to talk to someone who wasn't likely to tear her head off for it. "I hate it. I hate all of it. Ron and Harry, they're both so miserable all the time. Neither one of them seems to care if _I'm_ miserable. They just expect me to keep on, or something, and they don't realize how hard it is, _or_ how hard they're making it!"

Charlie smirked, holding her gaze. "I've heard all the stories of everything you've all been through together. You've _always_ been there, Hermione. Always been strong for them, even with all those tears. Problem with being the strong one is that it gets taken for granted. People expect you to be strong so much they don't even realize they expect if from you."

She nodded. That certainly sounded like her problem. She'd always hated crying, which seemed silly given how often she seemed to do it. No matter the cause—anger, frustration, pain, fear—it always made her feel as if strong was the last thing anyone would call her.

"I'm just a little bit sick of it," she murmured with a small, sad laugh.

"I know. But you've got to be that for them for a little bit longer. Just until this is all over." He grinned. "I dread to think of their chances without you."

A surprised laugh bubbled out of her, then. "So do I. You, um, you know what?"

"Hmm?"

Sniffling once more, she bit her lip for a quiet moment as she stared up at him. "At . . . at the reception. When there was all that commotion . . . you tried to protect me. It seems like no one else ever thinks to protect me, everyone's always so sure I can take care of myself. And I can, sure, but I just . . . I just wanted to let you know that I liked that."

Charlie nodded. "Me, too."

"It made me feel safe."

"I'm glad I could—"

His words were cut off as she jumped up on her toes, closing the distance between them. Her mouth pressing to his, he tightened his hold on her, keeping her against him as he tilted his head. He parted her lips with the tip of his tongue and then darted inside, tasting and teasing.

They broke the kiss, both breathing just a bit heavy despite how gentle it had been.

Clearing his throat softly, he managed to say again in a whisper, "I'm glad I could make you feel that way."

Hermione nodded. That kiss . . . . _God,_ that had been the sweetest, most romantic thing ever. She was glad she'd done it. Who knew when they might see each other again? Of course, having the notebooks meant she actually might be able to get away and see him, again.

Using them to keep tabs on each other would've seemed the wiser course of action under different circumstances. However, _not_ sharing information about her movements or the Orders' was safer for everyone, and they both knew it.

"I should go," she said with a nod, a pout she simply couldn't hide betraying her feelings.

"Here." Fishing about in his robes, he came up with a black velvet pouch. "Happy birthday."

Dropping her arms from around his neck, she took the pouch from his hands. Opening it, she slid free a silver dragon, curled in a loose half-circle.

"Oh my God! Charlie, it's beautiful," she said as he slipped it from her hands and coiled it carefully around the back of neck so the head and the tip of the tail curled around the front to drape over her collarbones.

Smiling, he kissed her again before breathing the word against her lips, "Go."

Her eyes were still closed when she appeared back in the same spot from where she'd Disapparated what could've only been a few minutes earlier.

Sniffling all over again, Hermione wiped at her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. Collecting herself, she carefully tucked Charlie's birthday present beneath the collar of her jumper and wound back around the trees to start toward the tent.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked as she drew closer.

Smiling almost wistfully, she nodded. She hated that she was keeping this from them, but there was simply too much else going on. For the first time in so long, however, she was okay.

Better than okay.

And pretty sure she was falling _hard_ for Charlie Weasley.


	4. Chapter 4

**This is where I once again remind readers that some canon events still take place/are referenced, but supporting circumstances (dialogue, events leading up to/surrounding key canon plot moments) will be different.**

* * *

 **Chapter Four**

Over the weeks that followed, Hermione and Charlie conversed nearly every night via their spelled notebooks. The passing days were becoming harder and harder to manage, the bulk of her daylight hours spent keeping—or at least trying to keep—Harry and Ron's tempers in check, never mind that _still_ neither of them saw fit to check in with her about how _her_ emotions were faring during all this.

It was just as Charlie'd said, she supposed. They took for granted that she was always strong for them, even when she was a mess of tears. There was a very real chance _his_ understanding was the sole thing keeping her from losing it just as much as Harry and Ron were.

Her nights? Those were definitely easier to bear. Once darkness fell, her time was split between writing to Charlie, sleeping, standing watch when it was her turn, and—every so often—slipping away to meet him in that park where they'd shared their first kiss. It was never more than a handful of minutes at a time, sometime ten or fifteen at the most, only long enough that her absence from the campsite wouldn't be noticed, or compromise Harry and Ron's safety.

It was time enough for each of them to see that the other was doing all right, time enough to assure one another they were not being reckless—well, no more reckless than was typical for either of them, at least—and, of course, time enough for snogging. She was ignoring that sometimes she spent so many of their stolen minutes snogging Charlie Weasley senseless that there left no time for talking between her arrival and departure.

It didn't take him long to realize that those where the nights she was the most emotionally wrung out from her mission. Not that he was complaining very much about her chosen coping mechanism, but those were also the nights when he left the park hurting, his heart absolutely aching so that he thought if he opened his robes, he might actually glimpse his chest raw and bleeding.

Those were the nights when his own, self-assigned, mission felt the most like betrayal. If any of the _true_ Death Eaters—or worse, the Dark Lord, himself—became suspicious, that could put her in danger. He still wasn't at all certain what he'd do if the time came that his duplicity was discovered.

It gnawed at him that if that ever happened, and he was caught fraternizing with 'Potter's Mudblood'—dear God how his stomach roiled to even think that horrid word—he would have to do some things to protect her for which she might never forgive him. Once or twice, he'd contemplated telling her, at least then she could be braced if anything of the sort happened; he could be secure in the knowledge that whatever darker side of himself he might be forced to let Hermione see in his attempt to protect her, at least _she_ would know it was only a farce.

But he was fully cognizant that would only put them both in greater danger if his ruse was discovered, or if she, Harry, and Ron were captured.

Yet, he couldn't seem to stop her in the moments when she appeared before him and threw herself into his arms, her brown eyes full of miserable tears. He didn't want to stop her.

In those moments, when her fingers curled into the fabric of his robes, as they played with his hair and raked his scalp, when she sighed into him and nipped at his tongue, he didn't care what the future might bring. When he held her against him, eagerly returning her hungry, demanding kisses, he knew he didn't care that he might later suffer for this.

Tonight, as she appeared in their usual meeting place—they'd discovered a little alcove hidden from view of passersby after their third secret rendezvous—he noticed she wore that look. The one that said they'd get little talking done tonight.

She closed the distance between them at a run, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling his mouth down over hers. His reaction was automatic, instantaneous, as his hands settled over her hips, his fingers gripping into her clothes and holding her close as his tongue plunged between her lips.

Unlike those other nights she wore this look, however, she broke the kiss after a few breathless moments. Gasping, she dropped her head down, resting her forehead against his chest.

"I missed you," she whispered, her voice thick.

"I can tell," he answered, a low snicker edging his words. But he didn't like the way she sounded. Pulling her away enough to look into her face, he frowned at the sight of dampness on her cheeks. This must be worse than usual if she'd stopped mid-kiss.

"Oh, Hermione." Charlie wiped her cheeks dry with the gentle brush of his calloused fingertips. Settling cross-legged on the grassy earth, he pulled her to sit in his lap. "What's happened? Talk to me."

She curled up against him, her hands idly toying with the coarse dark leather of his robes. "The usual, mostly. It's just . . . ." Hermione sighed, tipping back her head as she sniffled. "It's just so hard. I feel like we're fracturing and I don't know what to do anymore."

His ginger brows pinched together in question. "You and me?"

Meeting his gaze in something like shock, a quiet little gasp tore out of her. "No, no, of course not. You and I?" A small smile curved her lips in spite of herself as she snuggled more firmly against his lap to prove her point. "You and I are perfect. You think I'd have greeted you like _that_ if something were wrong between us?"

He shrugged, smirking. "Maybe," he said, truly enjoying that he could make her smile when she'd been so upset just a few heartbeats ago. "You could've just wanted one last good snog for the road."

The bridge of her nose crinkled with her grin as she playfully swatted his shoulder. "Idiot."

Charlie laughed, winking at her. "Yeah, but I'm your idiot."

Hermione took a moment with that, her heart warm, full near to bursting at his comment—at his acknowledgment that he was _hers_. They'd never really discussed what they were now. Given everything going on in her life, in his, labeling their dynamic seemed like some unnecessary detail.

"That you are," she replied, her tone a little wistful before it dropped back to a darkly edged whisper. "I meant Harry and Ron and me."

"What's happened?"

"Nothing, really, but I think that's sort of the problem." She shook her head, hurrying on to clarify. "Harry doesn't have as much to go on as we'd originally believed with . . . with what we've been tasked to do. I didn't expect it to be easy, and I have total faith in him that we'll sort it all, somehow—that we'll manage. Your brother, however? He's not quite so positive about our chances of succeeding. Worse, still? They won't talk to each other directly about it. So, Harry will talk to me, Ron will talk to me, and both of them hush up when the other one comes near, so of course it ends up looking like we're all conspiring against each other. I'd thought when Ron's arm started healing up, he'd be less . . . surly, more agreeable, more understanding of the fact that he can't just keep expecting Harry, or me for that matter, to have answers just because he's sick of not knowing what we're doing."

He uttered a sympathetic chuckle and pulled her head back down against his chest. "You've got a lot on your plate, dealing with teenage male egos."

"Should be a mission unto itself," she agreed, snorting a giggle.

Charlie sighed. "I know my brother's not the easiest person to handle when he's . . . in a dark mood? Is that a good way to put it?"

Wincing, she cuddled more tightly into his hold. Oh, if only she could tell him what they were really up to. If he knew about Salazar Slytherin' locket, understood how it's loathsome influence was affecting Ron and Harry—she had to wonder why it had less affect on her, perhaps because she was a Muggleborn? That was always a possibility, she'd have to look into that in the future—he'd be better equipped to understand just how 'dark' their moods could swing.

Gods, she wanted to confide in him, but she knew any knowledge he had about their Horcrux hunting would only endanger him if he were captured by Voldemort's forces.

"Yes," she finally answered, after what she hoped was not a noticeable length of time. "That's definitely a good way to put it, probably the only way to put it, really, because he doesn't seem to realize it, but the way he's getting when he's all . . . dark, it's just not him and it hurts to watch. Then, to make matters worse, if he catches you looking at him like you're sad because he's not being himself—"

"Never lets you hear the end of it, does he?"

She felt a strange relief at Charlie's question, a small laugh bubbling out of her. It was good to remember that even if Ron's personality was occasionally rougher than usual due to the Horcrux's influences, he was still—deep down—acting like himself in some respects.

"You do know your brother," she conceded, nodding.

Sighing, he returned her nod. They lapsed into silence and he let himself get lost for a few precious breaths in how peaceful and perfect these stolen moments between them felt.

For so many minutes they both knew it bordered on dangerous, they simply sat on the grass in that Muggle park holding to one another.

Hermione knew it was illogical, that she couldn't stay without risking her instances of slipping away from camp being discovered by Harry and Ron. Without having to worry how she'd explain it to them, given their increasingly irrational states, in a way that would make them understand. Charlie knew it was right bloody stupid to remain like this, as if time didn't matter. Especially since that disgusting creature he was pretending to serve might summon him whenever, especially since he couldn't be certain there was no suspicion that his servitude wasn't a wholly honest endeavor.

Yet still neither of them seemed inclined to move.

The only thing that finally broke through Hermione's desire to remain with Charlie was the heaviness in her heart as the notion of Harry and Ron getting caught while she was away drifted through her mind. Oh, it wasn't likely with the wards she had personally put up, but if her time in the Wizarding world had taught her anything, it was that unforeseen circumstances could cock up even the most careful and absolute of precautions.

Just as heavy was the thought of what the Death Eaters would do to 'blood-traitor' Charlie Weasley if they caught him. They'd probably use her—his 'Mudblood girlfriend'—to torture him for information on the Order's movements.

Hermione lifted her head and leaned back in his arms, lifting her gaze to his.

Charlie's mouth dropped open a little, his worried expression softening. "You're crying again," he noted, his voice barely a whisper as he wiped beneath her eyes, just like earlier.

"I'm sorry." She shook her head, the apology reflexive. "No, no, I'm not. I just can't help it. I'm so scared for you."

For a moment, he grappled with her words. Could she know? No, that wasn't possible. Chances were if Hermione had any idea of his infiltration of Voldemort's ranks, she'd pin his limbs with a binding spell to keep him from going back.

No, of course she didn't have any idea of that. She was scared because she didn't know what his missions were, she hadn't the foggiest notion of what he faced, just as he didn't know what she faced when they were apart.

Smiling sadly, he took her hands in his, bending his head to brush his lips over her knuckles. "I know. I'm scared for you, too. All the time."

She sniffled, nodding. "God, I should go. We've been here entirely too long." Kissing him quick, she grudgingly climbed to her feet.

"Be careful," she said—their usual parting words.

"You too, and remember to take care of those two fools you're saddled with." He grinned. "Harry and Ron are having a tough time with whatever you three are dealing with, that's obvious. They need you."

 _They don't bloody act like it_ , she thought, her inner tone a mix of sour and remorseful. She needed to not think along such lines right now, or she'd start crying again, her anger and frustration and sorrow with their situation mingling together to boil over.

"I know. I'll watch out for them."

"Good." He stood, dropping another kiss on her lips. "Go."

Hermione Disapparated, reappearing at the edge of their campsite. It was just starting to rain, a drizzle kicking up fast to a downpour. Frowning, she held her arms over her head and ran for the tent.

She thought maybe she should've sensed all hell breaking loose from a distance, because as she entered, she heard the one thing the increasingly loud rain had blocked when she'd been outside.

Harry and Ron were hollering at each other, their voices angrier than she'd ever heard them.

"We thought Dumbledore gave you more to go on! Something, but you don't know what you're doing!" Ron was screaming the words through clenched teeth.

They both looked over as she stepped into their lines of sight.

Harry opened his mouth, seeming bewildered, but Ron snapped. "Where the bloody hell have you been?"

"I was patrolling the perimeter of the wards," she said thoughtlessly, the response automatic by now. "After overhearing Griphook and Dean and Ted Tonks earlier, I didn't like how close they got, so I thought—"

"Could've told someone," Harry said in hissed whisper.

Hermione frowned at him, but at least it wasn't getting her head ripped off. She could deal with an unhappy murmur any time of day over their vicious shouts.

She turned her attention to Ron, trying to reason with him, but he wasn't having it. He turned on her efforts, telling Harry about their private conversations when they'd commiserated about their lack of progress.

Her head swam as she tried to explain to Harry that wasn't what she'd said—and certainly not what she'd meant—she didn't blame him. She could be disappointed without blaming him, couldn't she? But Harry wasn't listening either, he was too busy being angry with Ron for expecting this would be easy, that things would fall into their laps.

And then it happened.

Ron declared he was leaving. She felt the world go a little sideways. He couldn't go. The only reason they'd gotten this far was because it was the three of them working together—as they always eventually did, no matter what might splinter them along the way. Well, no, actually, it was usually Ron who did the splintering along the way, now that she was thinking on it. Usually Ron who had to come around and remember how important they all were to each other.

She'd never left Harry's side, and she wouldn't start now.

Even as Harry told Ron, "Leave the Horcux. If you plan on going then go, but _that_ stays!"

Even as Ron angrily ripped the chain from his neck and moved to draw his wand.

Her reaction—casting a shield between them and Ron—was instantaneous. Ron's glare through the charm was baleful and wounding.

"You choose him?" He grinned mirthlessly. "Of course, you always do."

"Ron, it's not like that, please listen—"

How abruptly he pivoted away to face the tent's entrance cut off her protest. As he stomped out into the night on fast, angry footfalls, Hermione tried to follow, but was hampered by the shield. Dispelling it, she ran after him.

The rain was coming down heavier even now, dowsing her like bucketfuls as she tried to catch up to him. The downpour swallowed up her voice as she shouted his name, the heavy drops got in her eyes obscuring her vision.

And then, Ron Weasley was just gone.

The realization crashed down on her. One of her best friends and he'd just . . . stormed away from them and vanished. That he was the brother of the man she was falling in love with seemed only another weight added on.

She'd been wrong, she reflected as she sloshed her way back to the tent defeated, unable to control the sorrow and anger and frustration now. Her infuriated misery had her sobbing by the time she stepped in from the rain.

They hadn't been fracturing, they were fractured, long before this moment. She just hadn't wanted to see it. Neither had Harry, he watched in silence as she curled up in the chair and let herself cry.

She was aware of him pulling some blankets over her before he went to bed, himself.

What she hadn't been wrong about when she'd spoken to Charlie was that she had no idea what to do about it.


End file.
